


The Drinking Game

by the_random_writer



Series: Trek Tales [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Drinking Games, Gen, Scottish Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While home on leave, Kirk, McCoy and Scotty go for 'a few drinks'. Has James T. Kirk finally found his no-win scenario?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drinking Game

Jim placed his hands flat on the table, dropped his chin towards his chest, sneered slightly and gave McCoy a hateful, contemptuous glare. When he finally spoke, it was in an alarmingly quiet voice, to issue a callous and menacing threat.

"Go on then," he said to the other man. "Do your worst. Hit me as hard as you can, with everything you've got. I know you want to take me down, and I know you want to make me pay. But I'm warning you now, Bones. I won't go down alone, and I won't go down without a fight."

The tension around the table grew thick enough to cut with a knife, and nobody moved so much as a millimetre, not even to breathe or blink.

"Oh, son, you honestly have no idea how painful this is gonna be," McCoy murmured with a dangerous grin. "I'm gonna hit you so damn hard, you'll be walking funny until the end of the week."

The doctor dropped his eyes back to the PADD on the table, still trying to figure out which horrific form of torture to wield against his best friend. Slowly and surely, the pressure built to an almost unbearable level, until it was suddenly and rudely broken by the sound of Montgomery Scott heaving the galaxy's loudest and angriest sigh.

"Right then, if you pair of numpties have _quite_ finished waving your no doubt prodigious private parts in each other's faces, can we maybe get back to the _slightly_ more important business of ordering the next round?" the Scotsman thundered, scowling furiously at Kirk and McCoy as if they were both idiots in need of a village.

McCoy looked up from perusing the PADD just long enough to flash his CO a slightly apologetic grin. In the psychological heat of the moment, they'd both forgotten just how seriously Scotty regarded the matter at hand. Then again, the matter at hand _was_ alcohol—an extremely weighty topic indeed.

The evening had started sedately enough, as an opportunity for Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy and Mister Scott to unwind at the end of a mission over a few well-earned drinks. At some point in the proceedings, their group had acquired a fourth member in the form of Ensign Catherine McDonald, also an engineer and also a native of Scotland. Scotty knew her, liked her and had vouched for her social talents, and by social talents, he meant her ability to hold her drink. That had been enough for Kirk and McCoy to give her addition to their group an enthusiastic thumbs up.

At Scotty's suggestion, they'd relocated from a dull and underwhelming bar to the infamous Smorgasbord, an establishment renowned across the Federation for the depth and range of its liquid offerings. At the last count, it was serving more than twenty thousand forms of alcohol—a literally mind-numbing amount of booze. Unsurprisingly, it was one of Montgomery Scott's all-time favourite locations for whiling away his dirtside hours. He even had his own plaque on the holographic Wall of Fame, which updated with every order he placed to show what percentage of the massive menu he'd now consumed. He'd taken enormous pride in pointing it out to his friends, but had also been slightly annoyed to discover that due to his absence on Enterprise missions, he'd fallen out of the Top Ten, displaced by a Starfleet marine and a diplomat from Arcturus IV.

Scotty had proposed the location, but the blame for the drinking game lay very much at the doctor's door. The rules were few, and very simple. In each round, one person ordered while the other three drank. Drinks were limited to a standard, thirty millimetre measure, and anything inimical to human health was absolutely off the cards. Players could leave the game at any point, but tapping out meant ruining your reputation and paying the current value of the tab, however low or high it might be. In theory, the game could run until there was only one person left, but for the sake of their schedules, livers and wallets, they had all agreed to call it a day as soon as the first victim fell. So nobody would win in the traditional sense of the word, but one of them was absolutely going to lose, in an expensive and embarrassing way.

Jim had very quickly realized that he was ever so slightly out of his depth. But not because he couldn't drink. God, no. _Hell_ , no. During his Academy days, he'd once downed a metre of Trakian Ale in just under eleven seconds without even breaking a sweat—a feat that had finally cemented his then still-nascent friendship with McCoy. So the problem wasn't that he couldn't hold his booze, because he absolutely could. It was his complete lack of familiarity with the notoriously complicated menu.

Ordering from Smorgasbord's bill of fare was almost as much of a challenge as consuming the actual drinks. And as Jim had never been to the bar before, considering it the kind of gimmick establishment he generally preferred to avoid, he was totally unprepared for the enormity of the task at hand. In his last two turns on point, he'd inadvertently ordered booze so utterly innocuous to humans, Ensign McDonald had tartly suggested that perhaps he would rather go for a wee scone and a nice cup of Earl Grey tea. In comparison, Mister Scott and Doctor McCoy were both intimately acquainted with the contents of the enormous list, and were therefore merrily taking turns to wage the alcoholic version of a Second Eugenics War, with the extermination of one James T. Kirk as their primary motivation.

Scotty loudly cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on the table, and very deliberately glared at the menu PADD still resting in McCoy's hands. The doctor hovered for a moment, obviously torn between two equally punishing and pernicious drinks, then made his final decision and punched in an order for three servings. A few seconds later, a trio of delicate crystal glasses materialized on the centre tray. Each glass contained an ominous looking, dark grey liquid; something akin to gunpowder in slurry form.

Scotty smiled, sat up straight and rubbed his hands together in glee. "Tellarian Smoke Water," he declared. "A very nice choice, Leonard, if I do say so myself. I'd actually had it in mind for my next turn." He picked up his drink, downed it in a couple of sips, smacked his lips loudly and let out a contented sigh. "Absolutely lovely," he said. "And from one of the premium batches as well, if I'm not mistaken. Which is always a good idea. The regular stuff's a better price, but it can be a wee bit hard on the old noggin."

All eyes turned to Ensign McDonald. She was the youngest person at the table, but only by a few years, and had already made it very clear she had no intention of dishonouring the livers of her illustrious forebears by being the first to throw in the towel. She eyed her tumbler with suspicion, gave the contents a cautious sniff, then braced as if she was about to be the victim of a violent attack. Which, all things considered, she probably was, if only in the chemical sense.

She brought the container to her lips and threw back the contents in a single gulp. Then she sat for several minutes, silently rocking back and forth, gently banging the now empty beaker against the side of her skull. She eventually stilled and reached out with a trembling hand to place her glass back down on the tray. "Doctor McCoy, please don't take this the wrong way," she said hoarsely to the man on her left, "but you're a miserable, sadistic, evil prick, and I hope you die a long, slow, painful death."

Jim suppressed the urge to groan. He looked at Scotty, then at McDonald, then at his glass, then at McCoy, whose face was plastered with the biggest, boldest, most shit-eating grin the Captain had ever seen. He sighed quietly and bowed to his fate. It was only booze, and as far as he could tell, it hadn't done the ensign any permanent harm. How bad could it _really_ be?

Up came the glass and down went the drink.

 _Jesus holy fucking Christ on a flying goddamn fucking crutch_. This was easily the worst one yet. And this was from a _premium_ batch? How could Scotty drink this muck and not scream like he was about to die? He felt as if some primitive beast had come to life inside his brain, and was trying to use a rusty spoon to carve out an exit through the front of his head. Compared to this, ice cream brain freeze was merely an annoying tickle.

He took a few calming breaths, silently counted to ten and waited for the horrifying feeling to pass. Then he gave the man who was supposed to be his oldest and closest friend another disapproving glare. How could someone whose job it was to _heal_ people be so damn good at inflicting pain?

Thirteen drinks down, and the turn on point passed to McDonald.

Jim watched in mild disgust as the ensign perused the list of libations with an air of studious determination. Twenty-three, with barely one year of service under her belt, but even she appeared to know exactly what she was doing. Or maybe McDonald simply had a cultural lead. Maybe they taught 'How To Bullshit Your Way In Booze' as a mandatory subject in Scottish schools.

This time, the drink was thin, runny and dark red, with black, brown and yellow chunks. It honestly looked (and smelled) like a serving of liquid scabs. Scotty frowned, leaned back, folded his arms tightly across his chest and pursed his lips in concentration. Jim knew the look from playing Mister Scott at cards, and realized that, shockingly, the engineer had no idea what the malodorous substance was.

This time, it was the CMO who demonstrated his chemical expertise. The doctor raised his brows and gave McDonald an admiring nod. "If the young lady here knows her way around a transporter control board as well as she does a liquor menu, my molecules are in excellent hands," he noted approvingly.

McDonald gave McCoy a wink and a vengeful smile, then leaned back to watch the destruction unfold.

Jim huffed and rubbed the back of his neck. This was going to hurt even more than the last one. He just knew it.

McCoy collected his glass from the table, lifted it to toasting height and waited for Kirk and Scotty to follow his lead. "Gentlemen, on three," the doctor instructed. "One… two… three…"

Kirk squeezed his eyes shut, gulped down the contents of the container and waited for it to punch him soundly in the balls. Or the ass. Or the head. Or to unleash whatever terrible effect it was supposed to have on the human body. The terrible effect never came, until he opened his eyes to discover that the universe had gone totally dark.

"Dammit, Bones, you were supposed to filter out the stuff that's harmful to humans. I can't fucking see!" he hissed in what he assumed was his friend's direction.

"Relax, Jim, and don't be such an infant," the doctor retorted from across the table. "The blindness'll pass in a few moments. We're all perfectly fine. Just think of it as part of the fun."

Sure enough, a few moments later, the universe slowly shimmered back into view.

Jim heaved a sigh of relief and offered up a quick prayer of thanks. "Bones, I'm beginning to realize that you and I have a _very_ different concept of fun," he muttered, making a mental note to take the doctor power-gliding as soon as he had the chance, see who acted like an infant then. Between the pounding headaches, the temporary blindness and his inability to pick a halfway dangerous drink, Kirk wasn't entirely sure how much more of this 'game' he could take.

But it was finally his turn on point again.

A drinking game was just like sex, he decided. If you didn't have an engineer's technical nous or a doctor's impressive endurance, you could at least go out with a noisy bang. He had to make this next selection _really_ count.

He skimmed through the various sections of the enormous menu, looking for something with an inspiring name, something that positively screamed 'Instant Death In Liquid Form'. Maybe one of the Klingon wines. Or perhaps a nice Vulcan port. Who knew Vulcans even _made_ port?

This time, it was Ensign McDonald who hurried the proceedings along. "Ready when you are, Captain. If we hang around much longer, we'll be in danger of sobering up," she warned, as if this was the worst of all possible fates.

Kirk ignored the young woman's complaint and mentally added 'Unhelpful Sarcasm' to the list of subjects that were apparently mandatory in Scottish schools. He eventually decided to keep things simple, and stick to a Terran drink with a name that sounded rather impressive but a description he could understand. It was a rum concoction from Newfoundland in Canada, more commonly known as 'Screech'.

Three glasses, arms raised, clinkity clink, down the hatch.

Nothing. Nada. Bupkis. Zilch.

McCoy frowned, then ran his tongue around the front of his teeth, as if he was trying to identify the source of the unusual taste. McDonald at least had the decency to shudder slightly, but no more so than if she'd been sitting out in a gentle breeze. Scotty merely examined the inside of his glass and stifled the threat of a yawn.

FUCK, FUCK, FUCKITY, FUCK, FUCK.

God damn it. Why was this even happening to him? Why was he, James T. Kirk, Captain of the finest and newest ship in the fleet, the only person ever to beat the Kobayashi Maru, the slayer of Nero, the defeater of Khan, a man who had _literally_ come back from the dead, unable to outplay his CMO, his Chief Engineer and an ensign so young and green she was practically sprouting leaves?

He should have gone with the Vulcan port. He should have known better than to rely on Canada in his hour of need. The whole country was so damn nice, it couldn't even make an offensive drink.

Scotty was next on point, and already drilling into the menu with the look of a man about to launch a tactical alcohol strike.

Jim considered his options for a few moments, then raised his hands palms out in a decorous gesture of defeat. "Okay, people, I'm done, I'm out," he calmly announced. "You all win and I lose. The drinks are on me."

McDonald jumped up out of her chair and punched the air to celebrate not being the first to fold. She promptly discovered her legs were the least sober part of her body, completely lost her balance and pitched over the knee-high wall that ran around the edge of the booth.

Jim could tell from the giggling and snorting drifting up from the floor below that McDonald was more or less unharmed. He leaned out to take a look, just to be absolutely sure. He _was_ a Captain, after all.

"Ensign, are you all right?" he politely enquired.

"Quite all right, sir, thank you for asking. Nothing broken, except my dignity and pride. And maybe my arse as well, but just a wee bit," she told him with a brazen grin. Then she pushed herself up off the floor, dusted down the back of her dress and carefully returned to her seat.

They sat around the table in silence, three of them sipping the metabolizers the doctor had conscientiously ordered while the Captain figured out how to view and settle the bill.

"You okay there, Jim? You need me to lend you some cash?" McCoy asked with yet another shit-eating grin, obviously basking in the pleasure of taking his CO down.

"I got it, Bones, thanks. But I think I just completely sobered up, even without the metabolizers," Jim explained with a rueful grin, not entirely sure if the spinning sensation in his head was due to all of the booze he'd consumed or the shock of reading the final tab. Tellarian Smoke Water was a _very_ expensive hobby. Thankfully, one he had absolutely no intention of taking up.

A few minutes later, Scotty stole a glance at the clock, drained the remainder of his glass and stood up to take his leave of the group. "You'll pardon the rather abrupt departure, folks, but I just remembered there's somewhere else I'm supposed to be in ten minutes," he explained.

Jim let out a facetious snort. Knowing the Scotsman as well as he did, probably a bar at the other end of the street.

As he squeezed his way out of the booth, Scotty paused to lay a supportive hand on his CO's shoulder. "Jim, you're a bloody good Captain, a bloody good friend and _usually_ a bloody good drinker," the engineer advised. "But for the love of God, son, do some homework before you come here again."

Jim gave no verbal response, but ducked his head very slightly to acknowledge the older man's advice. Homework, be damned. Next time, he was bringing Spock and Uhura. Or better still, hacking the menu to switch up the drinks.

Another round of metabolizers, a few more minutes of affable silence, then it was Ensign McDonald's turn to speak. "I don't know about you gents, but all this drinking has given me a wee bit of an appetite. Do either of you fancy going somewhere for a bite to eat?" she proposed.

McCoy gave a nonchalant shrug to indicate he was easy either way, but Jim's interest was definitely piqued. He was ready to eat, and not something healthy, either. Something comforting and starchy, packed to the gills with sugars and carbs. The kind of thing that usually made Bones roll his eyes and lecture him about his nutritional choices.

"That sounds like a good plan to me, Ensign," he replied. "What kind of food did you have in mind?"

An evil smile blossomed on the young woman's face, causing Kirk's innards to cramp in fear. Oh, God. He was going to regret this even more than the stupid, horrible, overpriced drinks.

"Tell me," McDonald began in a cheerful voice. "Have either of you fine, brave, upstanding men ever tried a deep-fried Klingon Blood Pie?"


End file.
